Scarlet Ribbons
by twitchytwain
Summary: AU: Two people born to lose finally win something when they find each other.
1. Chapter 1

Olivia slides his beer along the counter then wipes her damp hands down the front of her, faded jeans. He's a trucker, she can tell from his scuffed up boots to his busted up denim jacket. He lets it hang around the back of his chair, his cowboy hat on the counter as he lifts his beer.

"Will that be all?" she drawls, motioning to his mug with her chin.

"No but the rest aint not on the menu" he replies peeling her white tank top with his eyes. His eyes linger on the swell of her breasts, taking note of the thin fabric revealing a lacy bra. Olivia knows just what he's thinking with his lecherous mind and she's in no mood for a new pair of boots under her bed. Even if she was, he's certainly not her type.

"You couldn't afford it even if it was" Olivia shakes her head and shuts her eyes against the glint of a silver beer tap. Late afternoon sunlight floods the bar marking the hardwood floor with elongated shadows and swirling dust particles. It's getting late and she knows that the place will start filling up with customers going hog wild until early dawn.

"What's your name, sweetheart? Let me take you out some time" the trucker persists, laying a hand on her forearm.

Removing his hand from her arm, she sets it back on the counter and says, "I aint allowed to talk to boys"

"Oh come on sugar, I'll make it worth your while"

"Is this ass-hole bothering you?"

Her brown eyes swing up to find Fitzgerald Grant towering over the trucker and she wonders when he came in.

"Nothing I caint handle Fitz. Your usual?" she bristles and cocks an eyebrow at him.

"Hey, hold your horses. I'm still talking to this pretty little thing" the trucker's steely hand makes a grab for her again and before she can shake him off, Fitz is on him like an old strung out hero recalling his glory days.

"You're done; now attend to your drink and let her be" he hisses, his hands fisting a handful of the trucker's shirt. Another woman might have trembled, flattered by his chivalry but Olivia isn't impressed. She's learnt to take very good care of herself and the likes of a has been football hero like Grant wont take that away from her. When he releases the man, he sits, slumps in his chair and leans over the counter to glare at his beer.

"I don't need you fightin my battles for me; I was fixin to take care of the hog myself" she juts her chin, turning to Fitz as adrenalin races through her.

"Then I just saved the fella from a whole lot of hurtin" he chuckles and suddenly her cheeks are on fire. Olivia moves away from him and fills a glass with two whiskey shots, then moves to the taps to fill up his mug.

"There, double whiskey and a beer chaser" she says, slamming the glasses down in front of him. Her gaze slides down his arms and takes in the tattoos peeking under the rolled up sleeves of his plaid shirt before going back to his face. He has a shock of wavy dark hair, peppered silver at his temples and the kind of beaten up look that only a man with grit and burden can wear and he wears it darn well.

"Thanks, Liv" he smiles with his unused lips and for some unfathomable reason today goose bumps prickle her arms when he does this.

"You're a sight for sore eyes, you know that?" he nods, scratching the stubble growing on his jawline and Olivia watches him guzzle down the shot of whiskey.

"This damn heat must be scrambling your brain, Fitzgerald Grant" she retorts, already setting up another shot and setting it down in front of him. When she looks back up, his eyes hold hers for a little while. He has those sleepy kind of eyes, the kind that tug the places she'd forgotten existed. He has the sort of eyes that sooth places like rain falling on Alabama. Cornflower blue, Abby, her best friend had called them once but Olivia doesn't think she was very accurate. Fitz's eyes remind her of the blue skies stretching over yellow wheat fields in Kansas. His eyes are as deep as forever and right now they're giving her vertigo.

"Have a drink with me" he coaxes but he knows she can't because she's working. Tossing a dish towel over her right shoulder she shrugs and takes a small shot of whiskey from the bottle. She salutes him quickly before tossing it down her throat.

Fitz has been coming to the bar every night for the past three weeks straight. He talks about his kids, Jerry and Karen. He tells Liv they are living in Chicago somewhere and Karen's fixing to get married but he never talks about Mellie. His wife died of cancer nearly a year ago and he's been searching for redemption at the bottom of a whisky bottle ever since. She can't imagine what it must be like, watching someone you love being whittled down by a disease and she's not sure if she wouldn't seek the same remedy. Then again she doesn't need much of an excuse to drink; she's been winding down every night with a bottle of whisky ever since Jake left. Scratch that, she shakes her head as she pours another beer for a customer. Jake Ballard didn't leave; the bastard's incarcerated for armed robbery. She sure knows how to pick them.

The sound of a crackling stereo makes her jerk her head to the busted up jukebox where Fitz is preparing to load up a song. She hears a few of the regulars groan because they know he's fixing to play _Bloody Mary Morning_ like he always does. He shuffles back to his stool as the song starts up then cradles the bottle like a long lost lover.

 _Baby left me without warning, sometime in the night…_ old Willie Nelson sings about being an old country boy who fell in love and discovered that the pitfalls of the city were all too real.

Abby comes in for her shift just as the bar begins to fill up, the place morphs from an old truck stop drinking-hole in Yawning, Alabama into a boisterous bar with scantily clad females looking for a good time with a couple of sawmill employees. By the time her shift ends, everything aches right down to the bone.

"Alright, I'm done for the night" she tells Abby and nods a farewell to her boss, Edison. The music has already grown louder, pumping inside her chest and the dance floor is starting to fill up with a regular crowd.

"Hey, drive safe, ye hear?" Abby calls as Liv nears the exit, brushing into incoming regulars. She sings a few more farewells and ducks unsolicited passes before she finds herself outside, a cool evening breeze licking her skin.

Taking a moment to breathe the fresh air, she closes her eyes and feels the breeze over her skin. She's looking forward to a nice, relaxing evening eating left over takeout in front of the T.V. She digs her purse for her car keys and a flash of movement catches the corner of her eye.

"Fitz?" she cries, spotting his plaid, cotton shirt. He's leaning over the hood of his pickup, face palmed in his hands.

"You alright?" she shouts and he groans back but she notices his stagger. She knows he's had one too many and possibly one too many to even get behind the wheel.

"You need a ride home?" she advances toward him, keys jingling in her hand and places a hand on his back. When he swings around to look at her, his face is blanched white and he narrows his bloodshot eyes at her and slurs something incoherent.

"Come on, I'll take you home" she tells him and grabs his arm, grateful that he's not a belligerent drunk. Fitz comes willingly and they head back to her sedan where she hustles him into the passenger seat. After setting his seat back so he can relax better, she climbs into the car and heaves a sigh.

Finding his house is not a problem because they live in the sort of town where everyone knows everyone and their dog. She parks outside his house on the gravel driveway where a porch light shines a pool of light on her rusty car hood. When she nudges him awake she knows it's futile because he's already dead to the world. Rifling through his pockets, she looks for his house key and comes up empty handed. Its late, she's tired and the devil is starting to eat a hole through her belly. After checking her surroundings and confirming that no is home by pounding at his door, she trudges back to her car and resigns to take the old drunk home with her.

He can sleep on her couch and she would have done her good deed for the day.

..

The minute she steps inside her small trailer, she tosses her keys on the table and they land next to the mason jars she keeps there. They're filled with quarters and dollars for a rainy day but most are filled up with lost and found things that she hopes will find their home one day.

She hauls Fitz up over the small steps and pushes him onto her ratty couch with a faded floral print and stuffing pouring out of it. Closing the metal door behind her, she fastens the latch and leans against it, letting out a shaky breath. For a moment she just stands there watching the man with his head lolling to one side and his mouth wide open.

"Not so attractive now, are you cowboy?" she scoffs and kneels down in front of him to remove his boots. It's been a long time since she's had a man in her trailer, even a passed out one. Next she slips him out of his shirt but stops short of his jeans. The heat of his skin under her fingertips floods her with warmth that surprises her. It's not the soothing, calming type of warmth but rather a beastly kind that quickens her breath. She can smell the whisky rising of his mouth, his skin, his hair as if he's been drenched in it but it doesn't nauseate her. She's used to it, hell she grew up on that smell. Her eyes rest on his chest covered now by a white wife-beater and watch its rise and fall. His breathing is in line with his heartbeat, the heartbeat she feels on his wrists as she holds them. Finally Liv moves again and shakes her head, shaking the heat off.

She rolls him onto his back and presses her hand against the warmth of his chest. Placing a thin sheet over him, she watches him stir before he settles down to a good rhythmic breathing.

He doesn't snore much, she thinks as she slips under the cool sheets in her bedroom.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing to wake him up is the clank of dishes in the kitchen sink, then comes the slap of boots on the floor and the whistle of a boiling kettle. Fitz cracks an eye open and stares at the ceiling.

The wrong ceiling.

"Sweet Mary and Joseph. "the sheet feels heavy, a tangle around his legs as he tries to sit up. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands and tastes diesel and piss in his mouth. He reckons he must've gone hard last night and groans at the memory.

"Don't get your knickers in a bunch, cowboy. We aint done nothin"

Her voice startles him and he jerks his head up to a pair of whiskey colored doe-eyes. They aint watered down either. They look strong, golden, like whiskey taken straight and for a moment they knock him back just like the first burn of the real thing.

"Liv…" he stammers, searching her face. His eyes drag down to her tank top, gaze staggering on the swell of her sun-kissed breasts before he averts his eyes. Throwing off the covers, he swings both legs to the floor but then a throbbing pain from his knee shoots up his leg and he makes a grab for the joint.

"You alright?" she asks, elevating an eyebrow.

"Yeah, old sports injury" he says, rubbing his knee, "how'd I get here?"

"You were too busted up to drive" she shrugs her shoulders, both hands slipping into the front pocket of her snug blue jeans.

"You didn't have to…" he swallows the rest of his sentence, bashful as he lowers his gaze to his sock covered feet.

"Looks like you could use some coffee" she juts her chin toward the kettle before she saunters off to her makeshift kitchen. His eyes follow her, fastened to her backside and the jeans that fit her too darn well before they drift up to the cool white stretch of her tank top. He figures he's been staring too long when she strolls back to the couch and hands him a hot cup of coffee. Their fingers brush for a whisper of a second and a sudden heat flares in his gut. When his heart pushes against his chest, he knows that he has to say something to kill the electricity pulsing between them.

"Got any cheese grits?" he asks, lifting his eyes back to hers. It's only then that he notices her dark circles, like she hasn't had proper sleep in weeks. Fitz knows all about that and for a second it feels like he's looking into a mirror.

Her pain reflects his pain.

"Why yes I do. Would you like some shrimp and biscuits to go with that?" she cocks her head and shoots him a look that makes him sit back, hands rubbing down the front of his worn blue jeans.

"Pay me no mind, darlin. I reckon I'm just tired" He scrubs a hand over his stubble and adjusts his shoulders. His back hurts something awful and he gathers that it must've been the small couch and the lumpy pillow. It aint like he could've slept better at home in his own bed because there are different demons there. The same monsters he chases with whiskey.

"Libby, you descent?" someone hollers behind her door and Liv groans, slapping a hand to her forehead. Startled, Fitz scrambles to his feet, his hand flying to massage the back of his neck. After giving him a reassuring nod, Liv swings the door open, banging it against the side of the trailer and finds a waiflike blonde cradling an empty sugar container.

"Amanda"

"I hate to trouble you but-"the words die in her throat, her eyes widening at the sight of Fitzgerald standing two feet away from Olivia.

"Gator got your tongue?" Olivia asks, drumming her fingers on the open door.

"Ah… no, how y'all doing this morning?" Amanda cranes her neck in attempt to see over Olivia's shoulder. Silently excusing himself, Fitz slips into the next room in hopes of finding the restroom. He peeks inside what he assumes must be her bedroom. There's a small unmade bed anchoring the room. He notes the crucifix above her bed, a dusty old bible and an open bottle of Jack Daniels on her nightstand. The drapes aren't open yet but a sliver of sunlight manages to manoeuvre its way through a chink between the dull drapes.

"There you are, you ready to head out?"

She makes him jolt again and he swivels around to give her a slight nod. When she squats down to pick up her bag from the linoleum floor, Fitz eyes latch on to the tattoo peeking under her waistband. It's an intricate design that sits just above her rear and Fitz shies his eyes away again.

..

When he finally gets home after wrangling back his pickup, he heads straights to his old trusted bottle and takes a phone call from Cyrus.

"I hear you woke up over at Libby's house. I reckon even a blind hog finds an acorn now and then" he sniggers and Fitz swallows his whiskey, no ice. Cyrus asks him about a Ford some customer's meant to pick up in the afternoon and Fitz makes up some excuse because he hasn't gotten around to replacing a part for the darn thing.

Afterwards, he's standing on his porch looking over his backyard with knee-high grass and his eyes drift to the pile of corroded trucks sprinkling the scrapyard. They've been lying there since Jerry left, standing there like damn monuments to something. Karen has her own shrine, upstairs in her untouched bedroom where her old rocking horse still stands. It's the ghost of things, a feeling, intangible loss, nostalgia, he knows this but he can't let go. Karen called him three weeks ago to tell him that she's expecting her first child. He's going to be a granddaddy.

He rakes a hand through his dark hair, grey around the temples. He's not young anymore and he certainly feels old. He takes another swig from his glass and shakes his head. Mellie took his best years but she gave him some too, maybe not her best but she gave some nonetheless.

He's still angry with Mellie for dying on him, angry that she found the cowardly way out of their miserable lives. He remembers a time when they were happy, the elaborate Thursday night dinners she'd cook, catfish, rice and beans. He also remembers the dancing on the veranda with a constellation of stars above them. A part of him wishes he'd never found out about Andrew and their pregnancy. Sure they'd been barely out of high school when they fell in love but Mellie was supposed to be the pragmatic one. Fitz never reckoned that she'd be the one to have an affair. Oh and how that affair had simmered into a burning secret that consumed the town. People still looked at him with that knowing look, holding the secret in their eyes. After her Teddy died, they tried to rebuild their marriage and Andrew left but things were never the same.

Then came the cancer, her blessing and his curse.

His body aches but the whiskey soothes him. It takes care of him like a woman might on some cold, wintry evening. Every sip is like warm fingers trailing down his back, a mouth resting on his bare shoulder. The whiskey makes everything fade away and wipes his slate clean if only for a short spell.


	3. Chapter 3

3.

Wet heat licks her face like a dog's hot breath as soon as she climbs out of her old car. She stands there for a moment regarding the old run down shack her father calls his home before she approaches it.

The gate hangs down on rusted hinges and she swings it shut as she brushes past it. It moans in the stagnant heat, nothing but the sound of dogs barking in the distance in this neighborhood. Olivia skips up the porch and the heat presses against her skin, curling the hairs at her nape. She grew up in this neighborhood, creeping from house to house playing ding dong ditch and riding her bicycle down the treelined streets while her mother called for her to come home.

She flings the screen door open, noting the torn mesh and knocks on the front door. There's a muffled grumble from behind the door and she pushes it open to enter the cool interior of the house.

"Hey, pa." she greets and he grunts his acknowledgement. He father is seated in his lazy boy; it's worn and frayed like the clothes on his back. A green sofa covered in clear hard plastic lines one wall and a floral couch the other. A threadbare rug with cigarette burns lies on the floor in the middle of the room, the same floor she'd lay on her belly, helping her brother with his homework.

She studies Eli from the door. The camouflage mesh cap is low over his eyes, obscuring his face but she can smell the whisky wafting off him. He doesn't have a lick of fat on him and the yellow sweat stains on his armpits suggests that he hasn't yet taken a shower. It's been ten years since her mother passed and he hasn't been taking care of himself since then but then again, he never did. Her mother once told her that being married to her father had felt like being on death row. It took her twenty five years to get away from him but she finally did it through a pill overdose.

"How you doing pa?" she asks moving to kitchen. She takes in the greasy Tupperware bobbing in the kitchen sink and the overflowing trash can and she realizes that time cures nothing.

"You heard from your brother yet?" he yells, coughing into a spasm before recovering with heavy moans.

She stands at the sink and grabs one of the dirty dish towels hanging on hooks on the wall and turns the faucet. The windows face wide open space and a field of powerlines. It feels as endless as time and death.

"No, pa. I aint heard from him" she yells back, snapping her eyes away from the view and back to the sink filling with water. The water's cold because the geyser hasn't been switched on because he's trying to save up on electricity.

"You tell him to gimme a call when you talk to him." He coughs again and she can smell him light up a cigarette. He misses Harrison; she scoffs at the irony because Harrison had dumped their father on her like an unwanted dog.

She doesn't tell him that Harrison's been wanting to sell the house so he can put him up in a nursing home even though he's barely seventy years old and quite capable of taking care of himself. The man smokes two packs of cigarettes a day, drinks his weight in whisky but he's as healthy as a horse.

She loves him like she's birthed him and she'd forgive him for anything. She forgives him for telling her that he once prayed for another daughter, she forgives him for teaching Harrison to drive first even though she's older than him, she forgives him for beating her mother in front of her that one time, she forgives him for teaching Harrison how to tie his tie even though he never taught her how to tie her shoes and she forgives him for loving Harrison more than he loves her.

When the dishes are done, she collects the trash, empties it inside a black bag and the beer bottles click against each other. Wiping her hands with one of the dish towels, she goes to the freezer and she sticks her head inside, breathing in the icy cold air that clouds around her.

"You buy any food with the money I gave you?" she calls from the kitchen then rounds the wall back to the living room.

"You want me to get you somethin to eat?" she asks him crossing her arms against her chest.

"You got some cash on you?" he looks up at her. His eyes are milky with a tinge of blue in the sunlight and Olivia shakes her head.

"Didn't you get your social security check just last week?"

"That aint what I asked ya."

"Food, pa, I only got cash food." She pats the messenger bag slung across her body.

"No bother, I'll just ask the Captain." He waves her off and leans over the small coffee table in front of him to pick up a vial of tablets.

Tingles run up her spine and her nostrils flare when he says this. It's his favorite form of attack when he doesn't get his way.

"You do that pa, you ask Harrison for the money. I'm pretty sure he can afford it. It's the least he can do after running off and leaving me here to take care of everythin."

"I don't need your help." He tips his head back and tosses a few pills down his throat. Then he lifts a bottle of beer from the same table and chases the pills with it.

"Sure you don't, you got that social security check you drink every month." She snaps back and starts for the door. The wind bangs the screen door shut as she opens the interior door.

"A storm's coming." He says, pointing at her with his cigarette.

She looks back at him and lingers in the doorway, the breeze nudging her hair. Then she crosses the room and opens her arms out to him. When he rises to his feet it's with great aggravation but she doesn't care. She tucks a few bills into his shirt and pulls him in for a hug, feeling his ribs through the thin material of his shirt.

"I love you, pa."

"I love you too, Libby." He says.

..

Outside in the car she rolls down the crank window and lights up a cigarette. She stares at the house in front of her. The chain-link fence that encloses the yard is powdered with dust. She stares at the uncut grass, browned by the sun and the whisper of a field beyond the house. She thinks about buying her father a bucket of fried chicken but knows that he'll never eat it.

She doesn't hate him, doesn't blame him because she lost her way a long time ago. She opens her glove compartment and takes out a bottle of whisky then with a Dixie cup pressed between her thighs; she unscrews the top off the bottle and pours herself a stiff shot. After taking the first sip she starts the engine and blows smoke rings, flicking ash though the open window.

..

The smell of grease and exhaust wafts through the air as he tinkers with an old engine. It's not busy today, perhaps on account of the heat. Fitz shuts the hood of the car and rakes a hand through his hair. He cleans the oil stains on his hands with a piece of cloth and then grabs the hem of his t-shirt to wipe his face. He balls the cloth up and tosses it aside before retrieving his phone in the back pocket of his overalls. He scrolls down and finds Karen's number.

"Dad, I can't talk now. I'm at work." she says without greeting. Something clenches in his stomach and the way she's rushing him like an unwanted thing but he understands. She's out in the big city and she's living her life.

"I know, I know." He nods even though she can't see him. He wants to hold her and tell her that he's sorry. He looks up at the grey clouds looming over him in the sky and swipes a hand down his face. The impending storm reminds him of how much Karen hates thunder storms, he wonders if she still does, if she still hides under her bed with her favorite blanket when the first thunder rumbles.

"I love you sweetheart." He tells her and she rushes his sentiments back before hanging up on him.

..

The storm is still brooding when he makes his way to the Wranglers bar where Liv works. He catches her climbing out of her car; bag flung across her body, keys in her hand and approaches her.

"Liv." He calls and she stalls by the entrance, smiling up at him.

"Thank you for last night, darlin. You're an angel." He says thickly, his eyes growing soft.

"I aint no angel." She says with a laugh.

With a shrug, Fitz presses on and hooks his thumbs in the front pocket of his jeans, he cocks his head and gives her one of his lazy smiles "Let me take you out."

"Take me out?" there's a tilt in her voice as her eyes widen and he's sure he spots some renewed color in her cheeks.

"To thank you for rescuing me." He reiterates.

"You don't need to thank me." She shakes her head, her gaze shifting down to her boots.

He takes in everything about her from her full lips, the slope of her pretty nose, those doe-eyes starving for attention, her defiant little chin and the sheen of sweat filming her chest. His eyes linger there longer than they should, tracing the thin material of her shirt and the way in which it sticks to her flesh like tissue paper. He wets his lips and swallows past the knot in his throat and the heat curls around them, hot, sticky heat that excites the nerve endings on his skin.

Finding his voice, he finally drawls "Its just food, darlin. Two friends sharing a meal together."

"I reckon you won't let up until I say yes." She inhales sharply then tugs at her bottom lip with her teeth.

"Yes ma'am, I won't." he smiles and holds the door open for her.


	4. Chapter 4

He plonks himself onto a bar stool while she makes a beeline for the coffee machine behind the counter. She pours herself a fresh cup, blowing on it before taking a sip. He watches her as she skims the crowd, expelling a breath as her eyes settle on the crowd. Everyone is either line dancing or nursing a drink at the bar.

Liv's got to be at least fifteen years younger than him. She's young, beautiful and he feels like a dirty old man staring at her ass like that. Her brown skin gleams with sweat under the dim lights and he thinks that it's been too long since he's been with a woman.

A country song streams through the jukebox, playing on a loop and the place is hot and crowded and everyone is harbouring some intention of getting laid. Liv's gaze glides over him as she serves him and something stirs in him. When she turns back to attend to another customer he does his damnedest not to stare at her ass and looks out to the dance floor instead. He spots Amanda swinging her hips and stomping her feet in line with the music. Every time she whirls she glances back over her shoulder and casts a coquettish look at him.

Fitz's eyes find Liv again. She's weaving between tables toting around a tray and the beer atop the tray keeps sloping over the edge of the glass. Later she comes to him, serves him whisky and trades his used glass for a fresh one. She slides his beer in front of him and their fingers touch for a hint of a second. Her fingers are warm, a tangle of fire against his skin. Then she's off again taking a call on the phone behind the bar and he strains his ears to listen in on her conversation.

"What the hell you want Jake?" she asks, her eyes flitting to Edson who's helping her tend the bar.

"I'm busy." She says again and Fitz slugs down his beer. It's so cold it makes his teeth ache.

"And how is it that I'm treatin' you exactly?" she's shouting now, her voice easy to hear over the music and then sensing the gazes that sail her way, she clasps a hand over the mouth, cupping the phone. She turns around so that her back is facing the audience, her face to the wall.

Fitz turns back to the crowd and spots Amanda. She struts towards him, a calculating glint in her eyes. She's wearing a midriff baring top, too much make-up and her hair's teased as big as life. She's the sketch of a middle-aged woman trying to recapture her youth. She works the cash register at the Marsh grocery store, a job she's held for six years since her husband bolted off to Atlanta with her best friend and there have been times that Fitz felt sorry for her.

"Hey Fitz." She leans against the bar, resting one elbow on the counter.

"Amanda." He greets.

"Miss me my ass." Liv shouts again before slamming the phone down. She disappears behind the bar, towards the kitchen and Fitz rotates in his stool once more to face Amanda. Her eyes look hungry as she scans him.

"Somethin happening between you and Libby?" she enquires and sets her drink down next to his.

'No."

"You sure?" she trails her pink fingernails along the back of his hand and Fitz quickly pulls away.

"Yup" he says around the mouth of his bottle. Eyes glittering, Amanda sets her small purse on the counter and retrieves a coin from it. She shows it to him and then closes her other hand over it.

"Come on, heads say I take you home tonight." Opening her hand again, she flips the coin, it spins in the air and lands on the sticky bar it comes up tails.

"Too bad." She shrugs, picking up her drink again. The smile she offers him is not the same smile she gives the thirteen-people deep line of customers at the grocery store, it's a smile only reserves for potential bed-mates. It's a hot promise of things to come.

"It's been a year Fitz-"she finally says when he says noting about her advances.

"Don't."

"Call me when you're ready." She mumbles and then she's off to prowl the floor again. Fitz hooks the neck of the bottle between two fingers and tips it toward her in salute before taking a big swallow.

..

A wave of searing heat clasps him as soon as he exits the bar. The rumble is distant like a shimmer of thin sheet metal and he smells the approaching storm.

"You hungry?" he calls out to Olivia whose standing by her car, fishing for the keys in her bag. The parking lot is crowded with pickups but there isn't a soul in sight, just the street lamps and the sound of moths striking glass. The music's muffled but its tune still carries out to them.

"Starving." Her lips twitch into a half-smile and Fitz chuckles, realizing that he'd been holding his breath.

..

They take his pickup. He closes the door for her and walks around the truck with the headlights illuminating him and then takes his position behind the steering wheel.

The windows are rolled down to drive the heat out of the car but warm thick air still filters in from outside, blowing across their faces as their hair dances against the breeze. The air carries the scent of azaleas and the distant sounds of traffic. She stares through the windscreen at the star flecked sky. The moon seems bigger tonight, tangerine-hot and hanging low like its listening in.

"How come you single?"

"As opposed to having a man take care of me?" there's an instant fierce metal in her voice and when he casts a glimpse at her he sees that her eyes are closed but there's the softest hint of a smile across her face.

"Don't think you need a man to take care of you darling. You can darn well take care of yourself." He shoots her a sly grin.

"I like being single." She looks at him with a directness that makes his smile grow bolder. She's so determined to make him believe this statement that she's been telling herself for far too long and perhaps she's right. She's happy being single.

"Who's Jake?" he asks and the question startles her.

"Jake?"

"Jake." He repeats.

"You listening in on my calls now?" she asks and with that he lets the conversation die.

The truck rolls up in front of the drive-thru window of chicken franchise. He orders a three piece combo for himself and she asks for a two piece with extra fries, hot sauce and corn on the cob. They pay at the next window, picking up their food. After pulling away from the drive-thru they drive in the direction of Jim Curtis's bowling alley.

The place is packed by the looks of the dusty parking lot. Fitz parks the truck and kills the engine. He drops the tailgate and climbs into the back to retrieve a six-pack from a cooler. They sit on the dropped tailgate of his pickup, pop open their beers and tear into their food. Fireflies ride their skin, hovering in the dense air and scraping their shoulders. A rumble of trucks echoes out on the highway. They sound like stinging hornets on a muggy afternoon and the heat whistles, squeezing up the air around them.

"Folk used to worship you." She says quietly, wiping her hands with a napkin then offers him a cigarette from her pack. She watches as he pulls one out and then takes one herself. After lighting hers she hands him the lighter and catches the flick of his thumb behind a cupped hand. The light flares, striking the cigarette wedged between his lips and he takes a long pull.

"I saw you play once. I was thirteen and you were playing against the Houston Texans." She looks out over at the flashing neon sign outside the bowling alley as she speaks but she doesn't seem to be really looking, more like staring into space while she takes another pull from her cigarette. Smoke spirals out toward the star studded sky and she seems to float away along with it. Fitz remembers that season darn well, it was his last season before he retired. He recalls the pre-game jitters, the roar of the crowd on the bleachers, the cameras and the reporters. Jerry had been ten years old, Karen eight and Mellie was pregnant with her lover's child. Two games later he'd had the injury that ended his career even though he'd already been planning to retire. It was all over in a flash. He feels his knee with his hand then takes another swing at his beer.

Craning her neck to look up at the sky, Liv continues "The Falcons were down 20-13 but then you did a twenty yard run to touch down and it was fuckin amazing because you were just shy of four games to your retirement. You were magic out there; my pa called you Yawning's hero and the best quarterback he'd seen in a long time"

"What'd you think?" he asks.

"Thought your hands were too darn small." She shrugs her delicate shoulders and lifts her beer.

Fitz grins foolishly, beads of sweat on his lips comingling with those of the bottle as he takes another sip. They don't talk for a long time. They simply look out to the distance at the people filing in and out of the bowling alley and she tips up her beer and takes a long draw.

"Your pa still at the mill?" he finally asks, looking out at the blinking lights.

"Naw, he retired four years ago."

"And Harrison?"

"He's selling used cars up in Birmingham."

"You ever thought of hightailing it outa here?"

"Nah. Where would I go?" she shakes her head and takes another pull. She doesn't tell him that she peaked in high school, that she's been the cheerleader, the beauty queen, the homecoming queen, that she's dated the football players, had her one abortion, three miscarriages and that she's come to terms with the fact that high school was the best years of her life. She's thirty five and there's nothing left.

"Besides I'd miss that darn big open sky too much." She points with her cigarette, the cherry sparking against the sky like a red filament glowing inside a glass.

Turning her head, she finds him watching her, "What?" she asks.

"To big open skies." He taps his bottle to hers.

..

The sounds of balls rolling down the smooth alley are muffled by the boisterous sounds of Tim McGraw singing an up-tempo song. Every now and again she hears a loud crack followed by a roar of cheers as a ball knocks down pins. Fritz orders them a couple of beer and goes to procure a pair of bowling shoes and a lane for them.

He picks up a ball, inspects it then inserts his fingers before leaning forward at the waist to look down at the alley. He eyes the shiny pins at the end zone and releases the ball. With her eyes trained to his ass, she imagines the tautness of his muscles beneath her fingers and clenches the neck of the bottle.

Fitz looks up at her as he lifts another polished ball and gives her a little wink like he knows what she's been thinking. He steps forward and swings his arm back and releases the ball. It's a clean strike and when he swings back around he's got a foolish grin on his face.

Liv whistles with two fingers in her mouth then takes another swig at her beer. She taps her fingers against the bottle keeping time with the music. She draws slowly on her cigarette and looks her hands, studying the chewed stubs that pass for fingernails.

"Your turn" Fitz announces. She stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray in front of her and rises to her feet. She sticks her fingers inside a ball and looks at the pins down the shiny lane.

"Don't grip the ball too tightly." He moves behind her and sets his hands on her hips and the gentle ease of his powerful hands around her makes her breath hitch. Her heartbeat gallops like a thousand breathless rhinos. The heat of his body against hers elicits a delicious shiver down her back and she bites back a moan. He smells like sweet spicy woods, cigarettes and musk.

"It's got to feel comfortable, darlin." He purrs and his drawl is as slow and sweet as Georgia honey. His breath tickles the back of her neck, prickling the hairs there. She wonders what would happen if she would turn her head, their lips barely an inch apart, and his bristly chin grazing against her skin.

"Take your time." When his hands finally let go of her she sighs with relief. Without turning to look at him, she takes a few quick steps forward and rolls the ball down the lane until it strikes three pins.

"That aint too bad." He remarks with a smile.

"Naw, its horseshit. This bowling business is like catching lightning in a bottle." Liv shakes her head and runs a hand through her hair.

"You giving up?"

"Hell no."

..

Later, they're back outside the bar standing next to her car. The place has emptied some but a few cars still linger.

"You okay to drive?" she asks. The wind whips her hair into her mouth and they both look up at the sky just as the first fat drops of rain hit their faces.

Fitz drops his face and closes the distance between them but he keeps his hands in the front pocket of his jeans, "Stop tryin to look out for me, darlin. I've been lookin after myself for a good fifty years." His voice is a soft caress against her skin, the dampness of his breath teasing her lips.

"Caint help it." She replies, unblinking and unmoving. When the rain starts pelting their heads, she begins to move. An interruption caused by a force of nature. Mother Nature is stronger than gravity, stronger than the pull between objects, people, them. She's wiser too, Olivia thinks with a shrug as she opens her car door. What they were about to aint right. It aint right for her and it's too soon for him and folk will talk because folk always talked.

"Nigh, darlin." He says, pressing his hand against her window. It's raining harder now, water drenching his shirt and running down his face.

"Take care. Fitz." She waves, worried that he'll catch a cold out there. She starts the engine and pulls out of her parking spot.


	5. Chapter 5

It's close to one a.m. when he gets home. He pours himself a stiff drink as thunder booms rattling the windows, ripping through the house.

He can still smell Olivia; her scent lingers in his hands, the fibers of his shirt. It's a heady scent of musk, cigarettes, sweat and mint and it has his head spinning. The raw instable need he'd suddenly felt for Liv back at the bowling alley surprises him.

The way she'd pressed against him, skin sleek with sweat, the tight curls of her hair sticking to her flesh, her nipples straining at her thin tank top, the way her eyes held his with such raw vulnerability he thought he was going to lose his mind.

A gust of wind pushes against the windows, making the walls whimper. The door flings open, banging on its hinges and Fitz takes another long sip of his whisky. Slowly, he crosses the room and slams the door shut, locking it behind him. Then taking the bottle with him, stands at the foot of the stairs looking up at the top. Bright flashes of light follow him up the stairs as he wobbles, one step at a time.

Thoughts of Karen cowering under her bed like a panicked kitten everytime a storm hit flash through his mind and he stills, hand gripping the rail before proceeding to climb again. He passes Karen's bedroom, Jerry's bedroom and the old nursey that's now empty. The rest of the bedrooms are mausoleums as is his master bedroom.

He can still smell Mellie in the sheets even though he's washed them a million times and a few of her dresses still hang in the closet.

A closet he never opens.

He drinks and drinks until he nods off.

Sunlight filters through the drapes and he cracks one eye open. Then begrudgingly, he swings his feet over the bed and staggers to the adjoining bathroom. His throat feels raw as he pads his way downstairs and into the kitchen. He opens the fridge, takes out a bottle of beer then closes it with his elbow.

Not bothering with an opener, he uses his teeth to snap off the scalloped top and spits it out onto the counter.

He downs the first bottle to quench his thirst then opens a second bottle to right his aching body. Two aspirins sort out the headache and he's in the shower in no time.

The water pounds his shoulders, beating down on his head. He takes in gulps of water, spits them out and flexes his shoulders. Then he plants his palms against the wet tiles on the wall and drops his head so the water can pound the back of his neck.

It feels as good as hell.

..

The soil is red after the rain and the muggy air smells like pine needles and magnolia. Fitz bites into his foot-long chili cheese dog as he drives down a cracked asphalt road. He drives past a lake where a baptism is taking place. The Baptists hum their hymns, their liquid voices wafting through the air. The sound carries through the airwaves and coils itself inside his pickup, settling, nurturing before drifting back out into the air. He watches as those who are looking to be saved wade forward, standing in the water, the silver surface swelling around them as they wait for resurrection, redemption.

The priest dips them in the water, cleansing them of their sins, fixing their spirits.

And Fitz wishes it were that simple.

..

Olivia pushes the door open, walking into the cool interior of the diner.

The whir of blades from the ceiling fans is muffled by the boisterous activity inside the diner. It's lively with waiters calling out orders, children wailing and the sound of general conversation. The place is crowded with morning customers trying to escape the belching heat outside.

Liv walks down the middle aisle, hand raking through her sticky hair as she tries to find Abby. Spotting the redhead at a corner table, she makes her way toward her and slides into the bench opposite her.

"Hey, princess" she smiles at Abby's daughter, reaching out to squeeze her freckled cheeks. She's four and as cute as button in her pigtails. Abby thinks she looks like her because she's inherited her red hair but Liv can still see a bit of Charles in the girls' eyes. The bulk of Charles's looks has been taken by their two year old son, Bobby and as much as Abby hates her abusive ex-husband, she loves her kids.

They discuss general things like work and the bake-off contest while Liv makes faces at Bobby. Then after Quinn, who owns the diner along with her husband, Huck brings their plates, Abby turns to ask Liv about Fitz.

"What about him?" Liv shrugs her shoulders as she shovels up grits into her mouth. She doesn't tell Abby that she woke up thinking about Fitz's strong hands around her waist. She doesn't tell her about the rasp in his voice when he whispered in her ear or the scrape of his stubble against her neck.

Letting out a shaky breath, she lifts her glass and takes a sip of coke. Abby looks at her expectantly, waiting for the details of the so called date.

"Aint nothin to talk about." Olivia insists, talking around her fork again.

Abby doesn't push it even though the blush riding Olivia's cheeks is telling her that something is definately happening.

..

Around noon, just after she's taken her second shower, she receives a call about her father. It's from a bar across town that he frequents. He's drunk again; they say and asking for her. After getting off the phone, she pulls on a pair of faded jeans, shoves her feet into a pair of boots and throws a thin t-shirt over her head. Her hair is a mess of tight black curls around her shoulders and so she pulls it back into a tight ponytail.

She grabs her pack of cigarettes and the car keys from the coffee table and leaves the trailer.

Her father's watering hole is downtown past the mill where she can see grey smoke curling up towards the sky. She takes a right at the intersection and passes liquor stores, pawn shops and boarded-up store fronts. Steam rises off the tarmac and the heat shimmers over the road, melting away the vista.

Eli's gotten into debt because of alcohol over the years. The bar gives him credit, lets him run a tab and when he does settle it, he opens a new one. She slows down as she approaches the bar, jerks the steering wheel as she leaves the tarmac with no center line only to skid into gravel. The wheels spit out grit as she floors the engine and stopping abruptly, she jerks forward, the seatbelt snapping her back. There are only three cars in the parking lot and the bar looks deserted but then again it always looks deserted.

She picks up her purse from the passenger seat and slips the strap over her shoulder. Tight coils of hair stick to her sweaty neck and she swipes a tongue over her lips.

Once she's inside the bar and away from the stifling heat, she glances around and shoves her hands down the front pockets of her jeans. She threads her way in between pool tables to get to the front of the bar. There she finds her father at one end of the bar, head down and chin to chest. There's an empty pitcher of beer on the wooden counter in front of him and an ashtray overfilled with ash and cigarette butts.

The cleaner rooms in the back cater to the gamblers. She can see a dealer dealing cards through one room before security shuts the door. Her eyes dart back to her father and she scans him slowly. He's staggering drunk, bloodshot eyes and patchy skin as dry as Texas. Liv closes her eyes because she can't look at him when he's like this even though she's seen him like this plenty of times.

"What's this?" she asks when the bartender slaps the bill on the counter in front of her.

"His check." He says nonchalantly, his chubby fingers wiping a glass clean.

"I aint payin that."

"Didn't ask you to. Just letting you know what your pa owes."

"If he owe so much, why the hell you keep letting him drink?"

"He's a friend and everyone is family here. It wouldn't be right to send him off without wetting his beak."

"He's drunker than Dottie Ford and Cooter Brown; you call that wetting his beak?"

"Just being charitable."

"Come on, pa." Liv scoffs and straightness up Eli. He moves like a rag doll, head and arms flopping over her as she tries to drape his arm around her shoulder so she can snake her arm around his waist.

One of the cleaners abandons his broom and assists her in taking her father out to the car. They help Eli climb into her clunker and she shuts the door behind him.

"Go easy on him" he says, patting Eli on the back.

Liv shoots him a look but says nothing. She notices new flakes of rust flaking off the hood as she rounds the car to climb behind the wheel. She leaves Eli's car behind and reckons she'll have to fetch it in the morning.

The road home passes through an old rusted railroad where the train comes by every two weeks. It doesn't stop and Liv has often wondered where it was going but never cared enough to find out.

"Don't fret, Libby. I'll fix it. Daddy will fix it." Eli slurs before passing out in his seat.

When they get home, she puts him to bed and she takes a beer out of the fridge. She opens a drawer and finds stacks of unopened bills. Kids from a neighboring house holler over the cackle of water. She can see them through the chain link fence laughing as they back flip into an inflated pool. Liv drops the empty can in the trash and opens another one. The hiss of the can echoes through the house and she runs a thumb over the steamy rim before taking a swig.

The orange rust of sunset spills over the field outside and those damn power lines stretch for miles. They stretch and she sits in the familiar silence of the house and watches the sunset.

..

Olivia wakes to the sound of a lawn mower and for a moment, she's disoriented but she remembers she's in her old bedroom. It smells dusty and musty. When she gets off the bed, the springs wail from the shift in weight. She makes her way to the bathroom and clicks the door shut behind her.

Flicking open a faucet, she stares at the rust colored water filling the tub. Slowly, she eases herself into the cold water and soaps herself. Her father wasn't always so bad. She remembers a time when he was a good father like the Saturdays when they'd have a barbecue dinner in the backyard. Eli would stand over sputtering sausage links, the scent of azaleas wafting over the garden as the meat sizzled.

Backlit by the sun, he looked just like Jesus.

She bites into her bottom lip until she bleeds to stop herself from crying. Tears are useless, she's knows that much.


End file.
